After The War
by LilyAnaRose
Summary: He heard soft "awes" of pity coming out of the mouths of his family and friends because almost every hand on that magical clock pointed to the word "Home". Almost.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I own nothing Harry Potter related, It all belongs to the lovely and brilliant Joanne Rowling.**

**A/N: Hello, this idea actually came to me whilst I was thinking of Head Canons for a Facebook page I administrate. If any of you want to check it out, just search "Just Because You've Got the Emotional Range of a Teaspoon". If you guys want to take a look at some of my other ideas and, who knows, maybe they'll make a story on here sooner or later… Anyway! I'll stop rambling. On to the story. **

**P.S: To anyone reading "Things I'm Not Allowed to Do at Hogwarts" and "Messers. Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs", I have your chapters in editing, they will be on soon; life has just been terribly hectic. Sorry, I'll let you kill me later. **

The Burrow was unusually silent; it had been for many days now. Suddenly, for the first time in days, there was a loud pop as a man with messy black hair appeared out of nowhere, stumbling a bit as he landed awkwardly on the slope of the hill just outside the tower of a house. Right as he regained his composure, another pop sounded and out of the air came a red haired man, stumbling just as the other had. Following him cam another pop, followed by two more, there seemed to be a crowd of red haired people forming on the hill side. As the last pop sounded, revealing a red haired girl and a lady with bushy brown hair, the entire crowd just stood, the silence settling around them.

The group didn't move nor did they talk; they just stood on the hill side, as if waiting for something to move them to the house in front of them.

It was the black haired man, his face weary and damaged, who had taken the first step toward the house. Cuts littered his body, as if he had just suffered through a battle, and he had. It had been five days since the Battle of Hogwarts had ended, and Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, and the Weasley family had just returned to Burrow after doing all they could to help rebuild the prestigious school which had nearly been destroyed. Harry looked toward his friends, their faces staring blankly at his. He went over to the youngest of the group, Ginny Weasley, and took her hand, leading her toward her home. On the way, Ginny grabbed Hermione's hand, who in turn grabbed Ron's hand, and one by one, the Weasley's moved down the hill side, their hands clasped together as if they would become lost if they let go.

Once everyone was in the house, everything remained silent. There was no happy conversation, no laughter at jokes, surprisingly, there were no jokes being passed around at all; for everyone was mourning, for one of their own was missing.

The George suddenly broke away from the group, dropping Charlie's hand as if it burned. He ran up the stairs to his right, his footsteps echoed in the eerily silent house until they stopped; ending with a bang as the door was thrown against its frame.

"Georgie." Mrs. Weasley whispered, moving to follow him, because the only way she knew how to comfort one of her children was to talk. However, all the other troubles her family had faced, all the other pain they had felt, seemed trivial compared to this. This pain felt horrible, as if someone was stabbing her in the abdomen with a knife over and over again, yet, all the same it numbed her, made her feel hollow, like a shell.

A hand on her shoulder stopped her in mid-step, she turned her head around, tears escaping her eyes for what felt like the billionth time in the last couple of days; and perhaps it had. Her watery brown eyes met calm green, but they were hurting too. These eyes, which had seen far too much for someone of his age, hurt just as much as hers did, but, unlike hers, had been practiced in the art of self-control, for all their life they had been trained to be strong, and breaking down the armor this one boy had built would be hard.

"Don't," Harry simply said, "he needs to be alone." For Harry Potter knew what George Weasley was going through, maybe not at the force, nor to the extent his hurt traveled, but he knew the feeling all the same. He knew what George needed was to grieve in his own way. The faces of Remus and Tonks swam into his vision, fading the once comforting interior of the house he had spent so many summers in. The image of their lifeless bodies broke his heart. The image of his godson, Teddy Lupin, his little tuft of hair already changing colors, just like his mother's rose in front of his eyes. The happiness in Remus' voice, the light in his eyes, which was probably brighter than he had ever seen it, when he was announcing his son's birth played like a broken film reel, over and over again. Images of Sirius fading into the veil; Snape's black tunnel-like eyes which had finally reached their end; Fred's cold, lifeless body, covered up by Percy; the unnatural stillness of Fred's body as he watched the Weasley's cry over their lost family member; his mother and father's dead bodies, their last words ringing in his head; Dumbledore falling off the Astronomy Tower into the darkness below all shot through his mind; adding another wound to his already scarred outside. The limp, lifeless body of Colin Creevy, whom Harry had never paid any attention to, stabbed his heart. Harry blinked a few times, willing the unwanted memories to go away. No. He couldn't get lost in his own miseries. He had to be here, for Fred, for the Weasleys. He couldn't distance himself like he had after Sirius' death, he needed to be here. Now.

His vision focused back onto the pained face of Mrs. Weasley, the woman who had always been there for him in his times of need, he needed to repay her, he needed the repay all of them, it's the least he could do. He pulled out a chair, the wood scraping on the floor sounded like a gunshot throughout the silent house. Mrs. Weasley collapsed on the chair before letting all of the tears fall, puddles staining the wood of the table beneath her arms.

"Damn it!" someone shouted, followed by a crash.

Harry looked over to the other end of the table at Percy, who had kicked over lone stool beside him. He saw the pain etched in the third oldest Weasley's face, the remorse and guilt evident on his pale face. For Percy wished it had been his instead. Him who had abandoned the family in the darkest, hardest times; him who had said those awful things to his father; him who had sent back the Christmas Sweater he had received from his mother, ignoring the obvious fact that it would pain her. It should have been him who had died. Even now, when Kingsley Shacklebolt had explained that there was nothing that could've prevented it. Even now, after he had all the time to let his anger out, did he want nothing more than to trade places with Fred. To be the one who had died. Fred's body, the last words he had said rang through his head like an accusation. It tortured him. It had been ever since Fred's spirit had left this world. It was as if this pain was one last prank Fred had to pull, but he knew it wasn't. His brother was too good to do this. Fred had never wanted to inflict pain on anyone, not pain like this. However, Percy knew he deserved it. He deserved the guilt and pain he was feeling. He deserved every last bit of it.

Hermione looked on as Bill broke away from Fleur and knelt beside his brother, who was silently crying next to the discarded stool beside him. She squeezed Ron's hand, which was inside hers, hoping to let him know that everything would be fine, that they would all make it through this. She looked over at his face, trying to catch his eye, but they were lost. His blue eyes were clouded over, looking at something she couldn't. However, she knew what he thinking of. It was the same thing they all hadn't stopped thinking of.

Fred.

She zoned out too, thinking of the infamous prankster. How his face would light up when he had an idea for a prank. She silently cursed herself for how hard she had been on the twins when they were at Hogwarts. She was suddenly reliving that moment. The sound of explosions echoed inside her head, making her tighten her hold on Ron's hand. Lights from spells hitting the School flashed in front of her eyes, and suddenly, Percy and Fred were there, battling Death Eaters with them. Percy said something whilst his Death Eater clawed at himself in pain. Fred laughed.

"_You're joking Perce!__ You actually __are__ joking... I don't think I've heard you joke since you were –__"_

Suddenly there was a bang which made Hermione jump. For a minute, all she saw was the castle, she thought that she had remember the explosion in the castle, the one that happened as Fred had died; but no. The minute she realized that this sound was real was when Mrs. Weasley let out a short wail of pain, laying her head against her arms, hers shoulders shaking from sobs. Another bang from above their heads sounded throughout the house followed by another and another. Hermione looked at Ron, the clouds had vanished and the worry she felt lined his face. She gave him a strained smile, squeezed his hand again, and broke away from him. She traveled numbly to the stove, turned it on, filled a kettle up and set it on its top all with a few flicks of her wand; Mere minutes later she had a cup with hot tea in her hand. She tapped Mrs. Weasley on the shoulder.

"Ron always told me how, when someone was upset, you would give them some tea." She responded to Mrs. Weasley's look of confusion when Hermione set down the cup. Mrs. Weasley stared for a moment, as if she hadn't quite processed what the Muggleborn had said before a ghost of a smile appeared on her age-worn face. Hermione sat down next to Mrs. Weasley, and across from Mr. Weasley, who had been sitting next his wife all this time, rubbing her shoulder as he stared blankly at the wooden table. She looked at Ron, who had turned around and was now examining the pictures across the wall behind where he had stood.

Ron looked at the pictures in front of him, hot tears welling up in the back of his eyes. Fred was everywhere; there was not one picture on this wall he could not associate with a fond memory of his older brother. Fred's voice echoed throughout his mind as he looked at each photo, trying to desperately hold back the tears. There were photos of Fred in almost every frame on this wall. Fred and George holding beaters bats hovering on their broomsticks, their arms slung over each other, their young faces laughing. The entire Weasley family during Christmas Dinner. Bill's graduation, the twins held up on his shoulders, Percy standing beside his eldest brother, Charlie knelt down beside him. Fred and George on the top of the roof of the Burrow, Mrs. Weasley yelling at them to come down. Fred playing patty-cake with a baby version of Ginny. Fred teaching a younger version of himself how to throw gnomes across the hedge; Bill, Charlie, Percy, and George all trying to catch the same gnome that the younger Ron failed to kick over the garden's hedge. There were too many. Too many memories, too many feeling, too much hurt.

Ron suddenly felt an arm across him shoulder. He turned his head to see Charlie next to him, looking at all the pictures in front of them, tears falling freely down his face.

"I miss him too Ronnie, we all do. I know this is hard for you. It's hard for all of us, but just think; now Fred is in a better place now. He can play all the pranks he wants without worrying about how Mum will punish him when she finds out."

Charlie's attempt at a joke did virtually nothing to lighten the mood between them. Ron just looked at Charlie who didn't even force a laugh. His face was grim; even he didn't find the joke funny. It was just an empty attempt for humor. Empty. Just like Ron. Charlie must've felt Ron staring at him, granted, Ron didn't even realize he had been staring. He was just zoning out, like he had been for the past five days. Ron looked away hastily, not wanting to look at the pictures, a taunting reminder that his brother wasn't coming back, he stared at the floor.

At his feet was a basket of laundry, long forgotten, the stark white sheets had thin layer of dust on them. His mother's golden clock was in the middle of them. Ron was reminded of how his Mum had always carried this clock with her when times were dark. _Were still living in the dark,_ Ron thought, _because nothing will ever seem bright again._

Ron's blood ran cold as he looked closer at the clock. He tugged on the sleeve of Charlie's shirt, something he hadn't done since he was a little boy.

"Charlie," Ron whispered, realizing that this was the first word he had said in days, "Charlie... lo-look at the clock." He heard his brother suck in a gasp of pain, but not pain on his behalf, more like pity.

"Harry," Ron heard Charlie whisper out to the others behind them, "Ginny, Hermione, Guys. Come here." Ron heard footsteps as everyone followed Charlie's orders. He heard soft "awes" of pity coming out of the mouths of his family and friends because almost every hand on that magical clock pointed to the word "Home". Almost.

Two hands weren't.

The two separate hands with the pictures of Fred and George were together.

They were both pointing to the word "Lost".

**A/N: Okay, so that's where I'm going to leave off for now. I'm going to make this story about 3 chapters, so I will be updating (Hopefully within the next week). Do me a favor? Can you please leave me a review telling you what you think? It would mean the world to me as a writer. 'Till next time.**

** -LilyAnaRose**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Hey guys! So I would just like to thank all of you for all of the amazing reviews that you left me! Every single one made me smile. Besides that, I really have nothing else to say. Enjoy!**

* * *

><p>It was a cold morning as 49 year old Harry Potter sat at his desk in the Auror department of the Ministry of Magic, looking over a report about some sort of "suspicious activity pertaining to Dark Magic". However, his mind just didn't want to concentrate. Actually, it had been wandering more often than not lately, and for good reason too.<p>

His mother-in-law, Molly Weasley's health had been deteriorating for some time, worrying everyone in the Potter-Weasley family. His brother-in-law, and best friend, Ron Weasley had been using up his "sick days", which had accumulated over the 30+ years that they had been working in this particular department, to be with his mother. Harry did take some days off, checking up on Mrs. Weasley and completing a good amount of housework, making it easier for his wife to come home and not become overwhelmed with work from her job and the house.

His mind cast him away to a time not so long ago, two years if his memory was correct, when the same feeling of dread and worry had settled over the extended Potter-Weasley clan. For Arthur Weasley, his, now deceased he reminded himself with great pain, father-in-law, had suffered from a rare form of muggle cancer. After months and months of searching for a cure, the Healers deemed the disease incurable, giving Arthur only a few weeks. Harry remembered coming home one night, exhausted both mentally and physically, to his wife crying on the couch in their family room. They didn't talk about anything; he just went over to her and held her in his arms as she cried over her fading father. He could see the toll the death of her father had taken on her when he passed. She had lost a significant amount of weight; it was like Fred Weasley dying all over again.

Harry threw the paper on the desk, putting his head in his hands, knotting his hands in his mop of black hair. He cursed himself for being so foolish. His hidden face was screwed up in pain and suffering. Even 32 years later, the wound Fred's death had created never fully healed for any of them. He remembered when they had returned to the Burrow after the Battle. George had refused to come down for days, refusing to eat, socialize, or talk. Basically, he refused to do anything besides stay in his room; he only ever left to go to the funeral. Harry recalled a particular occurrence after the funeral. After they all were gathered at the Burrow once more, George had dragged his feet back up to his room, the rest of the family watching his retreating form. It was a good five minutes before any of them had talked; it would've been longer if Ginny hadn't lost it.

_"He doesn't get it does he?" Ginny Weasley asked in the silent kitchen._

_"What d'you mean Gin?" Bill asked apprehensively, he didn't like the blank look on his little sister's face. _

_"He doesn't understand," Ginny said, looking at her brother, her eyes darkening, "does he? He doesn't realize that he isn't the only one hurting! He isn't the only one who lost Fred!" Ginny's voice rose higher and higher as her face reddened and her eyes darkened._

_"Ginny." Harry whispered, putting his hand on her shoulder._

_"No! He doesn't understand! He isn't the only one affected! What about us? What about how we feel? Just because Fred wasn't our exact carbon copy doesn't mean that we aren't hurting just as much as he is!" Ginny yelled in frustration before collapsing next to Harry, tears falling from her eyes. _

_"I just miss him so much." She whispered to Harry, her brown eyes were shining; her face had paled and sagged a bit as she let her pain show for the first time since the day after Fred's death. _

Harry rubbed his face, trying to cast the intruding memories away.

"Mr. Potter?"

Harry shot his head up, his eyes traveling to the doorway to his office; in it stood a petite brunette.

"Dana. Yes. What is it?" he asked, regaining his composure. Dana Kashell, his secretary, was a small girl who had joined his team around a year and a half ago. She was fresh out of Hogwarts, never asked questions, and always acted as if he would attack her any moment. She had a timid quality that reminded him of a certain werewolf.

"I'm so sorry to interrupt you, Mr. Potter."

"No need to apologize, Dana."

"It's just that your wife just sent an owl," Harry's blood ran cold, "It's an emergency, she needs you to come to the Burrow-"

Harry was already up and out the door before Dana had finished, "Thank you, Dana" He called behind himself before he picked up some floo powder, calling out "The Burrow", and vanished in a flurry of green flames.

"—Immediately." Dana finished, realizing that she was now alone. She walked over to her desk, opening up the novel she kept on her desk for times like this when her boss would vanish in a rush.

OOOOOO

It felt like an eternity when the green flames around him died down and revealed the inside of the Burrow. He stumbled out, ashes flying off of him, only to find a younger version of himself, which was situated on the couch across from the fireplace, looking at him.

"Albus!" Harry exclaimed to the man in a panic, "Albus, what's going on? I just got the call now—" Harry stopped short in surprise as his second oldest came up to him in a rush, the hug almost knocking him over. Harry took a few deep breaths as he felt spots of hot water soak through his shirt.

"Albus," Harry said, his voice more level and calm than it was a minute ago, he had to be here for his son, "what's happened? Why did your mum call me?"

His son, who was about as tall as he was, looked at his father, his green eyes, which were so much like his own, so much like his grandmother's, were shining with tears, which were running freely down his face and reflecting hopelessness and loss.

"Dad, grandmum sh-she's dying." Albus Severus choked through his tears.

Harry knew this already, he had known for a while that Molly Weasley didn't have long to live. About a month ago, when she went in for her yearly check-up at St. Mungo's, Harry had gotten an owl at work, requesting he come over to the hospital immediately. He had rushed out, of the office and into the floo destined for St. Mungo's. It was there that he had met all the Weasley siblings and their spouses. They had paraded into the room they were led to, all wondering what had summoned them here in short notice. There, in that tiny office, they met Molly Weasley, old and frail. Her shocking red hair had been traded for shining silver, her once plump form was now withered down to nothing, her eyes, which had always shone, had dulled a bit with the death of her husband and old age. The Healer had gestured for everyone to take a seat, although there were not enough, obviously he had not anticipated such a crowd.

_"Now, I assume I should tell you why you are all here." He started, trying to lighten the mood in the chokingly awkward room. No one laughed. _

_He cleared his throat and scratched that back of his head._

_"Well, lately, the age in which deaths occur for Wizards and Witches, especially the oldest generation, has decreased by a great amount. We, the Healers, have come to the conclusion that it is simply from stress. In the past five decades, the entire community has suffered through two Wars, each back to back. We believe that the cause from living in constant fear of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named—"_

_"—Voldemort—" Harry muttered under his breath. Thirty years since his final demise and people still haven't been able to say the name. He didn't understand it. _

_"—and the toll that the deaths of loved ones—"_

_Everyone except Mrs. Weasley, who was absorbed in the Healer's words, shuffled a bit, uncomfortable from the memories of the oldest Weasley twin entering their head. George made a barely audible noise of pain, Angelina absent-mindedly taking his hand in hers. The Healer was oblivious. _

_"—the stress the body endures during those who fought in battle, and all around memories which do not go away. I see that your mother was an avid player in each War, which I have much respect—"_

_"Sir," Percy interrupted, his tone was clipped yet polite, you could practically sense his annoyance, "I really appreciate all this, but I, as would the rest of my family, would love to know what is exactly wrong. May you please just skip to that part?" _

_Everyone was in shock; they had never seen Percy Weasley interrupt a figure of authority like that._

_"Very well," the Healer, clearly no one had ever done that before, his tone mirroring Percy's, "It seems as though the stress had been—how do I say this?—'eating away' at your mother for some time. The effects have been noticeable." he gestured towards Mrs. Weasley who only stared absently, "The sad truth is that your mother is deteriorating, and has been for a long time. I predict she has only two months, at the most, to live."_

Harry had known since then that there was limited time with the woman who had treated him as a son since he was twelve. They, the adults, had all agreed not to tell the children, hoping that they could delay the inevitable, because once it came out of their mouths, the news that the women who had acted mother to so many was dying, it would be final.

Now, seeing his grown son's face, Harry questioned whether or not it was wise not to tell their children. They would've been better prepared.

"Where are your brother and sister?" Harry asked as gentle as he could while his insides were tightening in worry.

"In grandmum's room."

Mrs. Weasley's room was a small, modest, area. It reflected both her and her late husband's personality. Muggle items met magical items. A coating of soft lavender paint covered the walls and on top of that, hung hundreds of pictures. Pictures of her children while they were young, Harry and Hermione making an appearance more than once, took up a majority of the wall's space. The extra space was filled with ones of her grandchildren, some even giving her great-grandchildren.

Harry's attention was drawn to the group of people crowded around king sized bed, where Mrs. Weasley resided. Harry and Albus walked over to the bed numbly, as if they were in a daze. They joined the group; however, if anyone noticed their sudden presence, no one gave any recognition. All their attention was focused on the frail, sick woman in the bed.

Mrs. Weasley seemed to have completely lost all of the fire and energy that used surrounded her. Her body was practically skin and bones. Her skin, which used to have a healthy glow to it, even in her old age, had gone gray and pale. Her hair had turned from the signature Weasley red to a shining, snowy white to a now dull, flat, offset white; her skin shown through the minimal amount of hair that clung to her scalp. She looked as if one long sigh from one of the surrounding family members around her would blow her away. Before, the Potter- Weasley's could pretend that Mrs. Weasley's appearance was purely from old age, but now, looking at the skeleton on the bed, no one could deny it. Mrs. Weasley was gravely ill.

Harry looked at the wasted face of the woman who had become the mother he never got to meet. Her eyes were closed as she slept, not realizing that Death himself was waiting around the corner for her. Her breaths came out in short, shallow gasps; like a fish that had been taken out of water. It broke his heart to see her like this, knowing that he was helpless to do anything but sit by.

Harry didn't look away Mrs. Weasley as he was the first to speak.

"What's happened?"

He felt as someone's, he didn't know whose, eyes landed on him.

"She started coughing this morning. It was horrible, blood started spotting her handkerchief and it wouldn't stop. I sent Angelina to floo for a Healer. The came back five minutes later, Mum had stopped coughing by then. The Healer said she has only a day more left." George responded, his voice soft.

Then a noise filled the room.

A horrible noise; it sounded like how Dudley's bike did when it broke after Dudley rode it one around the block. It came over and over and over again, everyone flinching as it sounded again.

Mrs. Weasley's entire form shuddered each time she coughed and blood splattered the sheets in front of her, making Harry sick. Then it stopped. Just like that.

She started mumbling something incoherent.

"What's she saying?" Lily asked, worry lining her voice.

Mrs. Weasley kept mumbling, the words tumbling out of her mouth.

"Mum? Mum?" Ron called out softly, lightly tapping Mrs. Weasley's bony hands. Her brown eyes flew open; her pupils were wider than they should've been. She looked around the group, her eyes wild in something that resembled shock.

"Freddie." Mrs. Weasley said, looking at the space right next to George, who looked as if someone had punched him in the stomach.

"Mum." Bill whispered, "Mum, that's George. Fred's—He's gone. He's dead."

Thirty years later, those words still seemed unreal.

"No, Billy." Mrs. Weasley whispered, rising up a bit; her eyes brighter than they had been since the Second War had started, "He's right there," She pointed at the same spot next to a pale George.

"He's right there Georgie. He's right next to you. He never left."

"Mum—"

"He's always been there," she whispered, laying back into the pillow, "neither did Arthur. They've never left. And neither will I."

Mrs. Weasley's breath evened out as she went back to sleep; then, it started to gradually decrease, until she took one last long breath, and her chest lifted for one last time.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: That's it for this chapter! And I actually updated **_**on time**_**. Aren't you guys happy? Anyways, I loved all your reviews, but, can you guys leave me some more? They made me really happy and, again, these reviews mean the world to us writers. I love you all! 'Till next time! **

**-LilyAnaRose **


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: I'm sorry for the late update. I had ACT's and, for anyone who knows what they are, they determine my entire future and that's **_**kinda**_** a big deal. Anyways, here is the final chapter of "After the War".**

**Before I sign out on this story, I just want to say thank you to those who reviewed: ****Vayalin Whisper****, ****YuuShka****, ****The Hennahito****, ice queen, ****AikoRose****, ****cookietimejbx2****, and to anyone else who reviews. Thank you so much. **

Ginny Potter sat down on the sofa in the family room, a cup of hot tea in her hand. As she situated herself on the couch, her aching body was soothed by the warmth of the fire in the hearth across the room. Age had been kind to the red-head; however it hadn't spared her the pain that followed from doing simple house-cleaning. Oh, what she would give to be young again and be outside, riding her broom or tossing garden gnomes across the backyard of the Burrow.

Her train of thought chugged on as she stared out of the window beside the fireplace, the snow gently falling outside mesmerizing her.

The years following her mother's death were the equivalent to a muggle rollercoaster. The marriage of her children and the birth of her grandchildren symbolized the highest moments in her life, whilst the cloud of death had continued to linger as a predator of the Weasley family. She had out-lived almost everyone in her family. Fred, Bill, Percy, Charlie. Even Ron had left her behind.

She felt hot tears well up in her eyes, as they always did when she thought of her family.

Despite Bill being the eldest, Charlie was the first to depart. It came as a shock to them when they received the letter. He was still in Romania at the time. Charlie had retired from dealing with the dragons directly, but that didn't stop him from helping out time after time. It just so happened that this time lost his balance and got a little too close to the egg of a Norwegian Ridgeback. The mother, she still had her suspicions on whether or not it was Norberta, didn't appreciate him coming that close. Charlie's body was charred black. He was barely recognizable when they received him.

Bill was the second to go. They weren't surprised it happened. Bill's health had been declining for a while until they decided that it was time for him to go in for an appointment with the Healers, much to Bill's constant reassurance that "he was fine" and that he "didn't need a Healer". He caught a bad case of some muggle diseases while out around Muggle London with Fleur. Something about the diseases didn't cooperate with each other _and_ Bill's body. He died the morning of his granddaughter's birthday.

The third to pass was, Percy. Age and sleep had claimed him. There had been no tragedy, sickness, or foul play concerning him, since the life he led was mostly uneventful. His funeral was a small, quiet one, just the way he would've wanted.

_The day was a cold one, the transition from fall to winter had been an early one, coming quickly and without any warning. She stood in the middle of the graveyard, tears falling from her eyes, and quickly freezing halfway down her cheeks. She didn't care anyone. Appearance of being the strong girl and woman she had grown into didn't matter to her anymore. One person could only take so much death. George was standing next to the coffin, speaking in sentences broken by sobs and gasps from grief. He had spoken of no one else but Percy through his speech. Percy's accomplishments, Percy's bravery for rejoining his family, Percy's strength, and Percy's brilliance; just Percy. Then he paused, he looked into the crowd, as if in a daze, and a minute smile graced his face. _

_ "Although Percy threatened Fred and me with detentions and referrals in our school days, he never followed through. Something that many of you don't know is that Percy was a pure genius when it came to pranks, an evil mastermind. He is the reason Fred and I became so good at pranks, he was an excellent person to go for if you needed fixing. But the thing that separated you and I Perce," George addressed the closed coffin, putting his hand on the cold wooden lid, "is that you never followed through with them, you wanted to maintain a perfect image. That's how you are Perce. Perfect. Perfect Percy."_

Later that night, George had lifted his glass to his late brother calling out, "To Perfect Percy."

The fourth, and final one to pass, was Ron. Ronald. Ginny sighed, her body already feeling tired, but not from the hour. She looked around at all the photos of her brother in the various frames around the room. In this room alone, he was everywhere. Walking through the house felt like walking through a dream, her closest brother was all around her. Images of him laughing surrounded her outside and inside. His death was also the most recent one. It had been a year and a half since her free-spirited brother had been buried in the ever changing ground.

His cause had been sudden. Quite sudden and unexpected to be honest. It happened at a Quidditch match. He was taking one of Rose's children to a match, her first one outside of the Hogwarts matches. He had just ordered them some food when Ron had clutched the table, his knuckles turning white as Jackie, her great-niece, had described in the waiting room for St. Mungo's. Ronald had started to shake vigorously, his hands still clutching the table of the concessions area, before he fell on the ground, his head hitting the hard-packed dirt hard with a sickening thud. Obviously, he was transported to St. Mungo's immediately. Hermione had been notified and so had Harry. Both the Potters and Weasleys rushed over to find a distraught Jacquelyn sitting all alone, the poor child was scared out of her mind. Within minutes they had the entire story. Ginny had to catch Hermione as she fell to the ground in shock and worry, knowing that her husband might not live to see her again. The all just stood there; Ginny consoling Hermione, Jackie helping as best as she could until her mother and Hugo had shown up.

Harry only stood there. His green eyes, the eyes she had fallen for, wide and glazed behind his wire-rimmed glasses. He was as pale as Nearly Headless Nick, and it didn't look like the colour would return anytime soon. His breaths came in short gasps as he weighed the chances of his best friend's survival. It wasn't long until the Healer had come out; they had pronounced Ron dead then. It wasn't the fact the Hermione had cried out in anguish at the realization of losing her husband, or the fact that Harry had stumbled right then and there, falling back into the wall before he ran to the hallway the Healer had come from. No one tried to stop him as he called out Ron's name, knowing there would be no answer. It was the reality of never seeing her brother again. Knowing that he would never floo over just to eat something while Hermione was out; that Ron would never beat Harry in a game of Wizard's Chess again; that he would never sneak up behind her in an attempt to scare her, only for her to hit him with a bat-bogey hex. Of finally realize that, slowly but surely, death was claiming each of the Weasley's as his own. And she couldn't stop it.

A chime jerked Ginny out of her thoughts; she hadn't even noticed she was crying until she felt hot drops fall on her fingers. She looked at the little drops of salt water sliding down her skin, a shiny trail left in its wake. What she would give to be able to take all of this hurt and just vanish it. _There should be a spell for that,_ she thought bitterly. _Well, there is,_ she remembered, but she would never in her life obliviate herself. There were too many happy memories intertwined with her sad ones. She would have to forget fifty nine years' worth of memories; she would have to go back to the source of the problem; to Fred's death.

Oh Fred.

How she missed her brother. Now, fifty nine years later, it was still unbelievable to think that her brother, one of the two that had been so full of life, was gone. It was close to impossible to believe that he would never have a child named George, like his mirror image named one after him. It was close to impossible to image George without Fred.

Oh George.

He was a ghost now. Not in the literal sense, like the ones that floated down the halls of Hogwarts, more in the metaphorical sense. George Weasley was a ghost of his former self. There were the times when George's eyes would lighten up like they had when his twin was with him. There were the times when he would see little Fred Jr. pulling a prank or doing something that reminded him of his brother, and George would smile like he had before, he would laugh like he did before, he would be the George he was before. However, more recently than not, George did not laugh, he did not smile something real, and his eyes did not sparkle.

Ginny looked up at the clock. Half past four. _Harry should be home soon,_ she thought to herself. She set her tea on the table in front of her. Although Harry had retired years ago, he still made visit to the Ministry, most likely to check up on Albus, who was the only Potter child who followed in his father's footsteps and became an Auror. Little Lily Luna had become a journalist for the profit, her stories were much better than Rita Skeeter's. Ginny had a scrapbook of all of her daughter's articles and it was growing day by day. James, much to the surprise of Harry and Ron, had not become an Auror. She remembered when James was a boy. He would always play "Auror and Death Eater", a game that many of the War veterans despised and tried to let die, but it just wouldn't. It was all of the evidence from his boyhood and days at Hogwarts, he excelled in Defense Against the Dark Arts much like his father, that pointed to a successful job as an Auror. So, it came as huge surprise when James Sirius brought home an acceptance letter to become a trainee Healer. Within a span of four years, James was a professional Healer, and over time he was known as one of the best. James was also on the team of Healers that tried to save Ron.

Ginny scanned to pristine room, her eyes eventually landing on the mantle of the fire place across the room. There, in the middle of the mantle, was a golden clock. Her mother's golden clock, which she had inherited after her mother's passing, sat there. All nine of the hands were not moving. Seven of the nine hands remained stationary for over a year, some even longer. She studied the pictures of her family; all of them were so young, as if they had never aged. Ron was still the scared eleven year old, age had not touched him. Fred and George were still joking in their frames, constantly jumping around. Percy looked so superior compared to the other photos. Her parents were looking at her lovingly. Bill and Charlie, well, they just smiled down at her. Every hand of the deceased was pointed at "Traveling". Her own was pointed in between "Home" and "Work", apparently the clock didn't recognize Godric's Hallow as her new home. George's was pointed at "Lost". His hadn't moved since Fred died. George and Fred were both separated, split at a 180 degree angle.

She was about to look away when a movement had caught her eye. Something inside the clock was moving. A hand. She watched it wiggle a bit, back and forth, back and forth. Then, as if something set it off, the hand directly across from it began to mirror it. The moved simultaneously, like a muggle sea-saw. They stopped, frozen as they had been for almost sixty years. Slowly, but surely, the began to move downwards, each hand being drawn towards each other by a force greater than any magic she had ever seen. Tears flew to her eyes as the hands stopped in the middle right at "Home"; right next to eat other, side-by-side, as they had been for years.

Her last brother had left her.

Fred and George Weasley had been reunited at last.

**A/N: So there is the end. I loved writing this story; it was different, writing a story about the next generation. I usually write them about the Marauders, but I liked it. Thank you, again, to everyone who reviewed, alerted, and favorited me and my story. Reviews are always appreciated and make me feel fuzzy inside. See you next time.**

**-LilyAnaRose**


End file.
